World's Child Book One
by Xanthe2
Summary: A small boy struggles to make sense of his destiny and his unusual abilities in a world full of danger


World's Child  
By Xanthe  
Book One: Uncle Walter  
"At the end of time, Saoshyant Astvatereta, the final Saviour, will  
make his appearance.   
He will be a son of Zoroaster, miraculously conceived by a virgin  
who swims in a lake   
where Zoroaster's seed has been preserved. When Saoshyant arrives to  
establish the   
Kingdom of Righteousness, after a cosmic year (approximately 12,000  
earthly years)   
there will be a general resurrection of both the good and the evil.  
Saoshyant will purify   
both the wicked and the righteous by causing all to pass through a  
river of molten metal   
(obtained through the melting of the mountains). This experience  
will be pleasant for   
the righteous (like being bathed in warm milk) but agonizing for the  
wicked (until all   
sins are purged away)."   
  
John Bowker, "Zoroastrianism," World Religions  
  
  
I think everyone is familiar with every single detail of that  
apocalyptic day, ten years ago, when our old world came to an end and  
the new one began. Literally thousands of books have been written  
about it, countless documentaries have been made, and we have been  
bombarded with innumerable films and TV reconstructions – all  
detailing that day and the events leading up to it. Everybody in the  
world knows where they were and what they were doing on that day,  
and, as I was at the centre of it, the public appetite for  
information about me has been insatiable. I don't mind that – I  
understand the curiosity, but there's always a certain human element  
missing, and I thought it was time I filled in that gap. I am human,  
after all, despite all the myths and legends that have sprung up  
around me. I didn't just emerge from a chrysalis at the age of ten to  
take part in the most momentous occasion in our history; I was  
raised, nurtured, and protected by a group of brave people who I can  
never thank enough for their love and kindness to me over the years.  
Not all those people are still alive; some died protecting me, but I  
have never stopped loving them.   
  
I'm often asked in interviews what my early childhood was like and  
my reply is always the same – which one? There were four distinct  
phases to my childhood – but the one thing I can say is that I was  
much loved in all of them, despite all that happened to me during my  
growing years.   
  
My first childhood took me to the age of about 10 months. I have  
some memories of my birth mother but more of her later. Just before  
my first birthday I was adopted. That was the second stage of my  
childhood and it lasted until I was 6 years old. I remember those  
early years vividly – perhaps it's because of the unique make up of  
my brain but I've always had the ability to see both my own life and  
the lives of those around me in particularly sharp colours. My memory  
is unusual but as a child I didn't know that other people didn't see  
the subtleties and nuances of colour and shape the way I did, that  
they didn't remember smells and sounds and touch as vividly as if  
they were actually happening. Back then there was a lot I didn't  
know.   
  
My adoptive parents were good people. Hard working, conservative,  
and kind; they didn't have a hope in hell of understanding me.  
Sometimes, even back then, I felt like a changeling. I didn't belong  
– I knew that from the moment I was able to understand anything. I  
loved my mother and father but I knew I didn't belong with them, and,  
more worryingly, I knew I wouldn't stay with them either. My folks  
kept themselves to themselves – if it hadn't been for their desire to  
adopt me then I don't think they'd have ventured out into the world  
at all, and once they had me, they closed their doors once more and  
returned to the simple, peaceful way of life that they loved so much.  
They lived on a ranch in Wyoming – it wasn't a big place, and they  
were pretty poor. They were as self-sufficient as possible, and Dad  
supplemented the rest of our income with his carving, leaving Mom  
free to keep the house – and educate me. I was home-schooled because  
my Mom had a panic about me being out of her sight – I guess she had  
waited so long to have a child that she was over-protective of me.  
Even aside from that, my parents were extremely religious, and didn't  
want much to do with what they saw as a godless world if they could  
avoid it; we were cut off on the small ranch, visits to the closest  
town were rare, and we didn't even have a television in the house, so  
I led a peculiarly insular life. It was probably this that kept me  
safe during the early years of my life.   
  
My mother had long dark hair and a permanently worried expression.  
She fretted about almost everything – whether we'd have enough money  
to see us through the winter, whether the animals on the ranch would  
fall ill, whether I was too cold or too hot, whether I was happy. I  
was happy enough but even back then I felt that this wasn't my real  
life although I was too small to put that feeling into words. I was  
waiting, although for what I did not know. I didn't have any idea how  
big a finger of destiny was pointing at me. I played in the dirt in  
the yard, ran after the chickens clapping my hands, and generally got  
underfoot. Sometimes I could sit for hours just staring into space –  
this worried my mother and father who even thought that I might be  
autistic, but of course that wasn't the case – in fact it was the  
exact opposite if anything. It was clear from a very early age that  
not only was I very verbal, but also that I was far more articulate  
than I should have been for my age and from the moment I could talk I  
was incredibly precocious. My perception of the world was also very  
different; I could see the world in sharper colours, hear sounds that  
weren't audible to anyone else. I could open my mouth and taste the  
world on my tongue; I could identify hundreds of different scents all  
mingled together – the roses and lilac that wound around the house,  
the 14 different animal scents from the barn, the sweet, rich smell  
of the alfalfa growing in the field, the sharp tang of gas from the  
cars that sped by in the road a mile or two from the ranch…all of  
them mingled together and yet I could identify each and every single  
one of them. I could see a spectrum of colours – when my mother and  
father looked at a tree they saw only that it had green leaves, but  
if I sat still and concentrated, I could see subtle variations of  
shade as the sun lit the underside of each leaf. I could even hear  
the rasping legs of a wandering caterpillar crawling over them. The  
world was a place of sensory delight to me, and sometimes I would  
become lost in its beauty, in its sounds and sights, to the point  
where I could block out everything and everyone else around.   
  
My father didn't like me being different. If he saw me standing and  
staring, he'd lift me up, give me a chore to do, anything to jolt me  
out of my strangeness. He'd never let me just be, and just being was  
important to me – it made me feel connected, and at one with my  
surroundings. My mother was more indulgent but my silences scared  
her and she worried and fretted over me until I learned to take  
myself off, away from them both, so that I could have some peace.   
  
My fifth year was a very important one, because that was when Uncle  
Walter arrived on the ranch. I can still remember that day more  
vividly than most. It was late summer, and my father was busy putting  
up the second cut of hay. He was out at dawn and didn't return until  
nightfall. My parents weren't wealthy – they had a small cow-calf  
operation at a time when the big feedlots dominated, and it was a  
struggle to make ends meet so we were always hovering close to the  
borders of poverty. My father couldn't afford anyone to help with the  
work, so, back then, it seemed as though Uncle Walter was heaven  
sent, a guardian angel, come to help us in our time of need. Come to  
think of it, that's still pretty much the way I think of him,  
although he'd growl at me and shake his head if I said as much in his  
hearing.   
  
It was late afternoon and the shadows were long. I was sitting  
staring at a centipede as it walked along the dusty path that led to  
the gate. I was transfixed by the sight of its multitude of tiny  
legs, and the little pitter-patter sound they made, that only I could  
hear. In fact, I was so engrossed that I didn't notice the sound of  
the gate opening at the end of the lane. Usually I can hear people  
coming a mile or two away, but not this time. I didn't notice  
anything until a large shadow loomed over me, blocking out the  
sunlight. Startled, I glanced up. I was a small boy, kneeling in the  
dirt, and from the angle I was crouching, Uncle Walter seemed to be a  
giant. He had long legs and a broad, powerful chest, and the fading  
evening sun was glancing off the back of his shining, almost-bald  
scalp. I gazed at him for a long time, and he gazed at me. I've never  
known anyone who could hold my gaze for so long without looking away  
or asking if I was okay and why was I staring but it seemed that  
Uncle Walter was as fascinated by me as I was by him. I swear that I  
saw the sun start to set behind him before either of us made a move  
or spoke. Then, after a long period of mutually fascinated study, he  
cleared his throat and smiled. I smiled back. I liked him  
immediately. I've always been a creature of instinct, and I knew,  
somehow, deep inside, that this was the most important thing that had  
happened to me in my short life so far. In fact, that meeting may  
well have been the single most important thing that ever happened to  
me.   
  
"You must be William," he said, his voice deep but friendly. I  
stared at him for a moment. My name wasn't William and yet – William  
sounded right, and I knew that it was my proper name, my real name,  
and the name I should bear. I frowned.   
  
"My parents call me Adam," I told him.   
  
He paused for a moment, considering this, as if it was unexpected  
and yet, when he thought about it, inevitable as well. He was wearing  
a pair of spectacles and I was fascinated by the way the sunlight  
caught the glass and made his warm brown eyes flash.   
  
"Ah. Adam. Yes. It's nice to meet you." He bent down and held out  
his hand and I stared at it. Nobody had ever wanted to shake my hand  
before. I was a child; nobody shook a child's hand. Uncle Walter was  
like that – he always treated me as if he saw the person I was  
inside, the person I would one day become, and not the child I then  
was. I took his hand, and if a choir of angels had suddenly started  
singing and the heavens had opened up at that moment in time I  
wouldn't have been surprised. His hand was warm, and the minute my  
small paw disappeared inside it I knew that I would be safe with this  
man. The contact also provided something else – a memory of a name. I  
looked up at him, and I remember feeling a little surprised as this  
had never happened to me before, although he says I was so self  
assured that you'd never have guessed. He also says that my solemn,  
knowing expression scared the shit out of him – but not as much as  
when I opened my mouth and said:  
  
"Uncle Walter. I've been waiting for you."   
  
His eyes flashed again although whether it was the sunlight or shock  
I don't know. His jaw did a little sideways movement – a  
characteristic gesture that would soon become very familiar to me.   
  
"Have you?" He frowned, and then laughed. "Well, maybe you have," he  
said with a shrug. "How did you know my name, Will…I mean Adam?"   
  
"It's okay. You can call me William when my parents aren't around to  
hear," I reassured him. I never did answer how I came to know his  
name. I just did. I think maybe that I was born knowing his name.   
  
At that moment I heard a voice calling the name my adoptive parents  
had given me and we both turned to the sound of it.   
  
"Adam, what are you…? Oh…hello…can I help you?" My mother came to a  
halt, flustered, and gazed at the stranger. He smiled, and bowed his  
head courteously.   
  
"Mrs. Granger? My name is Walter Skinner. I'm looking for…" he  
paused and glanced down at me. "Work," he finished. She shook her  
head, and grabbed my hand, yanking me away from him as if she was  
afraid he'd steal me. My mother was always over-protective of me.  
She'd wanted a child for years, and when I came along she could never  
quite believe I was hers to keep – she was always scared I'd  
disappear. Looking back, maybe she was more prescient than I  
realised. There was always danger around me, even back then. That,  
after all, was why Uncle Walter had come, even though I didn't know  
that at the time.   
  
"We don't have any work," my mother said. "We can't afford to pay  
anyone."  
  
"I don't need to be paid," Uncle Walter said softly. "I'm happy  
enough to work for my keep and somewhere to sleep - the barn maybe?"  
He glanced at the barn. "You look as if you have a lot of work going  
on with the harvest – I'm sure I could be of some help."  
  
My mother shook her head again.   
  
"I don't think so. I'll have to ask my husband but I don't think  
so," she said, and I just stood there, serenely, smiling at Uncle  
Walter. I knew, even if she didn't, that he'd be staying.   
  
As it turned out, my father twisted his ankle that very afternoon,  
and, by the time he came hobbling into the house a couple of hours  
later, it was badly swollen. He couldn't afford to sit around doing  
nothing until it healed, but he knew he was in no shape to get the  
work done either – it's hardly surprising that in the circumstances  
the offer of help from someone who wasn't even asking money for his  
labour was too tempting to refuse. And thus it was that Uncle Walter  
came to stay with us.   
  
He worked hard, although I don't think it was the kind of work he  
was used to. For all his height and sheer brute strength, he wasn't a  
young man, and his fingers were smooth and clean. His whole bearing  
spoke of a man who wasn't used to hard, physical farm work, and yet I  
never heard him complain. I think, maybe, he might have done some  
work on a farm or ranch a long time ago, because he had some skills –  
and he brought a pack containing everything he'd need, including  
tools, gloves, work clothes, boots, and a sleeping bag. He fully  
intended to find work with us, to make himself indispensable, and to  
stay as long as he could. He wasn't even put off by the living  
conditions – my mother wouldn't have a stranger sleeping in the house  
and insisted he bunked down in the dilapidated hired man's room  
attached to the barn. Every evening I would creep out of bed and  
visit him there. His fingers were raw, cracked, and bleeding and I'd  
watch as he bound them with strips from an old shirt that he kept in  
his bag. The one electric light bulb strung up in the room lit his  
face, making his eyes seem dark and intriguing, full of mysteries  
that involved me, but which he wasn't yet ready to divulge. I would  
sit beside him and he would put his arm around me and tell me  
stories. I'm not sure why I was so drawn to him – he'd be the first  
to admit that his stories were pretty dire to begin with. He clearly  
had little or no recent experience of either small children or ranch  
work, and yet somehow he managed to make a success of both. So much  
so, that when winter came, he ended up staying. He was just too  
useful to have around and he asked for so little and gave so much,  
from his unstinting work on the ranch to the attention he paid to me.   
  
My parents were apprehensive at first – he was a stranger after all,  
and he was showing a lot of interest in me. My mother was  
particularly concerned, and watched me and asked me a lot of  
questions about the amount of time I spent with Uncle Walter, but I  
was so happy around him, and Walter was so useful to have around that  
eventually she started to relax, and accept him, although she never  
let him become close enough to think he was part of the family. He  
was the hired man, and my folks treated him as such, and kept him at  
arm's length.   
  
Uncle Walter was a reader. He kept a pile of books in his room, and  
frequently walked into town to visit the little library there and  
pick up some more. I loved just snuggling up against him and watching  
those big, blunt fingers of his turn the pages on the latest book he  
was reading. I could lie for hours like that, lost in the silence and  
the comforting warmth of his companionship. When I asked, he would  
tell me about the books he was reading – he was something of a civil  
war buff and he taught me all about the various battles and the life  
stories of some of the people who fought in them, and why the war  
happened in the first place. He had another area of interest though –  
he liked factual books about UFO's. I never understood why he read  
them, as he seemed to spend most of his reading time arguing with  
them out loud, or cursing them for ignorance under his breath, but it  
was as if he was searching for some kind of important information,  
something that would make the subject slot into place for him and  
suddenly make sense.   
  
Walter would often get books out of the library with the sole  
intention of reading them to me, but I much preferred listening to  
the stories Uncle Walter made up himself.  
  
In the beginning, Uncle Walter's stories were all about people who  
wore suits and lived in a big city, but I didn't really have the  
experiences to understand or process the stories, so he began to  
change them. He told me about a beautiful red haired woman, and a  
brilliant dark haired man who went to towns and farms and various  
remote places, investigating monsters. I loved hearing those monster  
stories. My eyes would grow as round as saucers and I'd nestle in  
close to him, and he'd always keep that big arm comfortingly wrapped  
around my shoulders, keeping me safe. I had my favourite stories of  
course.   
  
"Tell me the one about the man with yellow eyes," I'd beg  
shamelessly, and he'd sigh and gather me close but he never once  
refused me.   
  
"Once upon a time there was a man called Eugene Tooms who was so old  
that he'd been alive for over a hundred years," he'd begin, and I'd  
feel that familiar thrill of anticipation, listening to his deep,  
rich voice, intoning in the shadowy, dimly lit room. I loved hearing  
how clever Agent Scully, and witty Agent Mulder would defeat the many  
foes they encountered.   
  
"When I grow up, do you think I could be an FBI agent?" I asked  
Uncle Walter when he finished.   
  
He gazed at me solemnly. "I think you'd make a very good agent,  
William," he replied.   
  
"As good as Agent Mulder and Agent Scully?" I pressed eagerly. He  
smiled and gently smoothed my dark hair away from my forehead.   
  
"Why not?" He murmured, his eyes misty and faraway. "Why not?"  
  
He lived simply – stretching out on an old iron spring bed in the  
hired man's room at night, and joining us for meals during the day,  
but it soon became clear that his priority wasn't the ranch work – it  
was me. He sought out every opportunity to be with me, and the plain  
truth is that I bonded with him much more than I had with my own  
parents. Mom and Dad did their best, but they wanted me to fit into  
their lives, to be what they wanted me to be. Uncle Walter wasn't  
like that. He had much more time for me than my parents did, busy as  
they were running the ranch. When Uncle Walter wasn't working he was  
with me – that was how he spent every free second of his leisure  
time. He taught me how to carve little animals out of wood, and  
bought me my first penknife, which my mother immediately confiscated  
as she was scared I'd cut myself. Uncle Walter wasn't like that – he  
didn't wrap me up in cotton wool. He'd go walking with me around the  
fields, woods and meadows. It was Uncle Walter who first taught me  
how to swim in the little pond behind the ranch, not my father. My  
father was a good man, but he wanted me to go at his pace, to learn  
the things he wanted me to know – Uncle Walter stepped into my world,  
and he was the first adult to do so. Uncle Walter wasn't freaked out  
when I stared into space for hours on end. Sometimes I'd disappear  
inside my head at noon and wake up as the sun was going down, to find  
Uncle Walter still sitting patiently beside me, usually whittling  
away at a piece of wood, waiting for me to come back to the world. He  
never tried to chide me or jolt me out of it - instead he asked me  
what it was I saw that I could stare so intently for so long. I tried  
to explain the many subtle variations of colour, the depth and  
richness of sound and taste and touch and he listened without  
interrupting, in a way that my parents never did. He was truly  
fascinated by me and didn't seem at all surprised that I was  
different – he didn't make me feel bad about it either. Instead he  
asked questions and tried to understand me, and I loved him all the  
more for it.  
  
It must have been hard for my parents though – seeing me become so  
close to him, and I picked up on their unease. Yet it was to Walter I  
ran, crying, when I hurt myself, and to Walter that I confided  
everything of my babyish hopes and dreams and fears. I wanted him to  
be proud of me, and that was why I remember the incident with the  
duck so vividly.   
  
We were out by the pond, he and I. It was evening and he was tired  
after a hard day's work on the ranch, but I had insisted we go out  
there because I loved it so much. I didn't really understand why we  
couldn't spend all day out by the pond, or exploring the woods – it  
annoyed me that he had to work. He indulged me as much as he could,  
but he did still need a reason to stay at the ranch, and if he had  
shirked his work he knew my father would have sent him packing. All  
the same, any free time he had he spent with me. On this occasion I'd  
dragged him out to the lake, and he picked up a smooth stone and  
threw it onto the flat surface of the water, where, much to my  
astonishment, it leaped out again, not once, not twice, but three  
times before disappearing from sight.  
  
"Uncle Walter! How did you do that?" I jumped up and down excitedly.  
"Show me! Show me please!" I begged, and, laughing, he did, but I was  
too small to master the technique, and every single stone I threw  
fell in and sank without a trace. I grew angry, and my throws grew  
wilder, and I became even more frustrated until, in a fit of temper,  
I threw one of my stones at a nearby duck who was paddling happily  
along. It hit her and she gave a squawk of alarm, although she wasn't  
seriously hurt. She made off quickly, and I turned to Uncle Walter, a  
triumphant look in my eyes – I could at least hit targets, even if I  
couldn't make the stones hop.  
  
"See, I hit it! I hit the duck!" I yelled excitedly, only to find  
him shaking his head. I'll never forget the look of profound  
disappointment I saw in his dark eyes that day. I knew, then and  
there, that I would go through hellfire and back rather than see that  
disappointment ever again knowing that I was the cause of it.  
  
"What did the duck do to you, William?" He asked me quietly, and his  
low tone and soft voice hurt me more than all the yelling in the  
world.   
  
"She's a duck!" I complained. "She doesn't matter! We eat the  
chickens in the yard so what's wrong with throwing a stone at a duck?"  
  
He stood there for a moment, considering this. "William, we raise  
the chickens for our table, and we treat them well. We don't hurt  
them for fun – when we kill them it's for food."  
  
I stared at him blankly, feeling resentful. My father would never  
have given me a lecture for this, and it annoyed me that Uncle Walter  
was making such a fuss about it.  
  
"I don't care about the stupid old duck," I told him, kicking my  
feet in the dirt.  
  
He looked at me solemnly for a long time, his dark eyes thoughtful,  
and then seemed to come to a decision. He sat down beneath a tree,  
and gathered me close beside him. I went, still feeling resentful.   
  
"William, you're young and normally I wouldn't talk about this with  
you, but I'm afraid that you won't be allowed to grow up in your own  
time. The world is changing too much for that." He glanced at the  
darkening sky, with a worried look. "We don't have much time,  
William, and while I don't want you to grow up worried and scared of  
your future, at the same time I have a duty and responsibility to  
prepare you for that future now – I think you'd hate me more if I  
didn't prepare you than if I do."  
  
"Prepare me for what?" I asked in a small voice, suddenly scared and  
no longer even caring about the duck.  
  
"William, at some point in the future the fate of the world may well  
rest on your shoulders," he said softly, his big arm wrapped warmly  
around me, keeping me safe as always, despite what he was telling me.  
"That may sound scary, but I believe it's the truth. You're a very  
special little boy, William." I stared at him, but he wasn't saying  
anything that surprised me. Even at that tender age I already knew  
that I was different and that some big task awaited me in my life.  
"When the day comes that the world needs you, William, you'll need to  
love the world – not just me, or your mom and dad, or this ranch, but  
the whole world. You'll need to love it enough to want to save it. I  
think in many ways you already do – you see things that nobody else  
does, and you're already half in love with the colours and the sounds  
and the smells that you've described to me so vividly. That duck –  
she's part of this world, part of the whole. She's part of what we  
might one day lose, part of what's at stake…" His voice choked in his  
throat and I flung my arms around his neck, and held on tight. Most  
of what he said went right over my head, but the serious tone in  
which he said it, and the look in his eyes, made me believe that what  
he'd said was of the utmost importance. He also confirmed to me  
something that I had understood on some level but had never been able  
to put into words, or even to consciously know until he said it; he  
confirmed to me that I was special, that I had a destiny, and was  
marked out for some great purpose.   
  
"I'm sorry, Uncle Walter," I whispered, and then I began sobbing  
against his shirt. "I'm sorry, duck!" I cried. I opened my mind to  
send the message to the assaulted duck and instead found myself a  
creature of feather and beak. I could feel the water beneath me, as  
my big orange feet paddled almost noiselessly…and there was a small,  
aching pain in my side where I'd been hit with a stone. Startled, I  
jolted out of the moment of empathy and that was when I began sobbing  
in earnest. That was the first time I'd ever had the experience of  
being inside another creature's skin and it scared the hell out of  
me. Uncle Walter held me tight while I cried my eyes out on his  
shirt. I was crying for more than the duck though – I was crying for  
myself, and for a kind of loss of innocence. Uncle Walter was right –  
he did have to tell me, and he did have to begin preparing me, but  
all the same, I knew that I had lost a part of my childhood that day.  
I also knew that I never, ever wanted Uncle Walter to be disappointed  
by me ever again. His disappointment was too terrible to bear. I  
vowed then and there that I would do everything I possibly could to  
make him proud of me, even if that meant saving the entire planet.   
  
The first real trauma to rock my little world came when I was 6  
years old. My father had become increasingly jealous of my  
relationship with Uncle Walter – I clearly viewed the big man as more  
of a father figure than my actual father and that upset my dad. He  
was a good man, and didn't deserve my disdain, but I was a child, and  
I just knew who I liked best and who I wanted to be with. Nobody  
could ever replace my mother – she was warm baths in winter and cold  
drinks in summer, she was my soft haven, where I could rest and  
cuddle up when I was tired. My father was a different matter, and a  
tense atmosphere developed in the house whenever Walter was there  
with us. It came to a head one day in the early summer of my 6th year  
when my father took me out to the pond and told me he was going to  
teach me how to swim. I'll never forget the look on his face when I  
told him that Uncle Walter had already taught me the previous summer.  
My father was so unconnected with my world that he hadn't even known  
– my excited chatter about the event had clearly gone in one ear and  
out the other. He took one look at me, stalked back to the house, and  
fired Uncle Walter on the spot. I stood there, aghast, tears in my  
eyes, and Walter looked back at me, dumbfounded – he clearly hadn't  
expected this. My father strode into the house and Walter lost no  
time in striding in there after him.   
  
"Nathaniel, please – what have I done?" He asked, in that calm,  
sensible tone he always had – Walter was a strange cross between  
warrior and diplomat.   
  
"You've gotten too close to Adam. The boy isn't yours, Walter."  
  
"I know that," Walter agreed but something in his eyes said that I  
wasn't Nathaniel Granger's boy either and my father picked up on that  
and became enraged.   
  
"It isn't right. There's something…" My father paused. "Something  
unnatural about it," he sneered. I'm sure he didn't mean it – he was  
just upset, but the look on Walter's face showed how angered and  
devastated he was by that remark.  
  
"I haven't laid a finger on that boy. I couldn't," he said  
vehemently while I watched, not understanding this part of the  
conversation, but feeling all too clearly how it had upset both these  
men who I loved very much.   
  
"I'm not saying you have but what do we really know about you? Who  
are you really, Walter? Why did you come here? Where are you from? I  
should have asked more questions at the time but it's too late for  
that now – I've gotta protect my boy and you've got to leave."  
  
I saw Walter struggle to control his emotions, and his jaw did a  
familiar sideways click – he wanted to stay badly, but my father's  
words and the implication in them had upset him almost beyond  
endurance.   
  
"This is absurd, Nathaniel," Walter remonstrated, still trying his  
hardest to win my father round. "You're just upset. It'll all look  
different tomorrow. Let me stay until then at least."  
  
"NO! I want you to leave now. If you don't, I'll get my shotgun," my  
father replied. I'm not sure whether he meant it or not, but he was  
too worked up to be rational. Uncle Walter took one final, long, hard  
look at my father and then faced up to the reality that there was  
nothing he could do that would change his mind. I let out a howl,  
realising that the battle had been fought and lost. Walter turned on  
his heel and left the house without another word – with me following  
close behind. My father called me back but I ignored him – all I  
could think about was that Walter, my ally, the only person in the  
whole world who seemed to understand me, was leaving.  
  
"Please don't go!" I begged, as he returned to the hired man's room  
to gather his belongings. "Please, Uncle Walter. Don't leave me. They  
don't understand. They don't know," I told him urgently.   
  
"I know," he replied, "but your father's made up his mind. He's  
talking about getting his shotgun if I don't leave. I don't have a  
choice, William."  
  
"But what about me?" I cried, with the self-absorption of childhood.  
"What will I do without you?"  
  
"Hush, William," he chided. "I won't be far, boy. Did you really  
think I could abandon you? Of course I can't! I have to watch over  
you in ca…" He bit his tongue at that. I think he was going to say  
something more, something about the danger that always threatened me,  
that I had sometimes glimpsed in the shadows out of the corners of my  
eyes, but he didn't want to alarm me. Instead he crouched down to my  
level, put his hands on my shoulders, and looked me in the eyes.  
"I'll be nearby, William. I'll find a way to let you know where." I  
could almost see his mind working frantically to figure out the  
details. "I'll leave a message for you, out by the pond, or…" he  
began before shaking his head violently. "Christ, what am I thinking?  
I won't need to leave a message. William…" He looked at me earnestly.  
"You'll have to look for me, but that won't be hard for you, will  
it?" He gave a smile, and gently brushed my cheek with his hand.  
"You'll be able to hear me and smell me – right?" He whispered. I  
gazed at him, and then nodded slowly.  
  
"Yes…I'll be able to find you," I whispered back. "But it won't be  
the same as having you here!" I launched myself at him, wrapped my  
arms around his neck and clung to him, and he held me tight.   
  
"You have to be strong, William," he told me firmly.   
  
"I don't want to be strong!" I complained, rubbing my snotty nose on  
the collar of his shirt.  
  
"We all have to do things we don't want to," he told me in a firm,  
no-nonsense, very Walter-like tone. I hung in his arms limply for a  
moment, my cheek against his shoulder, sobbing quietly, and he held  
me, his big hands rubbing warm circles on my back until at last my  
crying quietened. Then he disengaged me and put me back down on the  
ground. "Be strong for me, William," he told me fiercely, and I  
nodded, wanting him to be proud of me.   
  
"I'll pretend I'm Agent Mulder," I told him, squaring my chin and  
trying to look grown up. "I'll pretend I'm Agent Mulder going into a  
dark house to face monsters. I have to be brave."  
  
Walter's jaw did a savage sideways clench, but he managed to squeeze  
out a smile. "Agent Mulder would be proud of you, William," he told  
me, his voice sounding jerky, and full of some emotion I couldn't  
understand.  
  
"And you?" I asked, timorously. "Will you be proud of me, Uncle  
Walter?"  
  
He smiled and tousled my hair. "Always, William," he said, before  
depositing a kiss on my cheek. He grabbed his pack and then, with one  
last look over his shoulder at me, he walked out of that room that  
I'll always associate with him, leaving it neater, cleaner and a damn  
sight homelier than when he'd moved in. I gazed around the little  
room forlornly; it seemed so empty now, devoid of his reassuring  
presence. The room seemed haunted by the absence of his sleeping bag,  
his books, his pack and even his spare pair of glasses, which he kept  
on the rickety little table next to the bed. The emptiness of that  
room hurt me, but not as much as the loss of him, the solid,  
comforting presence of the man himself.  
  
I found my mother and father standing by the house, watching him go.  
My father even had the shotgun in his hands although I think that was  
to justify his earlier tirade rather than because he thought Walter  
was any serious threat to us. The ironic thing is that in sending  
Walter away, my father sealed the fate of us all – himself, my  
mother, and me, in a way that he could never foreseen, and paved the  
way for the greatest tragedy of my young life.   
  
I waited a few days before searching for Walter and I had to steel  
myself to wait that long, but Mom and Dad were jumpy and suspicious  
and my father's hand was never far from his shotgun. I don't think it  
was Walter they were worried about – I think it was the general sense  
of impeding disaster that wrapped itself around us like a suffocating  
cloak that summer. It was so close to us that even people like my  
parents, who couldn't see what I saw, or sense what I sensed, somehow  
picked up on the vague feeling of unrest and danger that lurked just  
on the edges of our world. The ranch, that had once been the source  
of such peace, enjoyment and love for me, took on a sinister aspect.  
Sometimes I woke at nights barely able to breathe – the place seemed  
stagnant and the air around it heavy with a sickly smell I could not  
identify. I lacked energy, and often sat, just staring at my mother  
as she worked in the house. She was on edge, every loud noise making  
her jump, and she was more protective of me than ever. I accepted her  
cuddles with eagerness, wanting to make the most of a commodity that  
I suspect I knew, even back then, would soon be in short supply. I'll  
never forget the cinnamon scent of her clothes, and the smell of  
cookies baking in the kitchen, the feel of her soft dark hair against  
my cheek and the lilting sound of her voice as she sang to me. She  
was the only mother I really knew and I remember her still. One day,  
as I watched her baking, a fly landed on her arm, and I let out a  
terrible, wordless scream. In my mind, I saw a swarm of flies,  
covering her body, while her sweet, sickly-scented blood washed out  
of the house and down the front steps. My mother, her back to me,  
hadn't seen my reaction, but I knew that I had to get out of that  
house, had to find Walter, before it was too late – although too late  
for what I didn't dare voice, even to myself.   
  
I ran and ran, trying to escape the nightmarish buzzing sound in my  
head, and the memory of something that had not yet happened. I found  
myself in the woods and it was only in their cool, reassuring  
darkness that I began to calm down. I sat for a moment, trying to  
focus on Uncle Walter's scent, and the sound of his rich, deep voice,  
and soon I heard a whisper of him on the wind. I got up, and began to  
follow that whisper. I closed my eyes the better to concentrate, and  
found that I could see the forest as perfectly as if I had my eyes  
open – every footstep I took was sure, I didn't trip, or slip, or  
fall, despite the fact that my eyes were clenched tightly, and all  
the time I was following that whispering scent. Then it was all  
around me, and I found myself coming to a standstill in a small,  
grassy clearing, next to a tinkling stream. I opened my eyes, and  
looked around – it felt strange to be using my eyes to see instead of  
that sixth sense in my head. I could see signs of a little camp –  
there was Walter's pack and sleeping bag on the ground, partially  
covered by a lean-to tarp, and the remains of a little campfire,  
still smouldering, but there was no sign of him. I was about to call  
out when there was a flurry of activity above, and something landed  
beside me.   
  
"Uncle Walter!" I berated as he swung me up in his arms. "I knew you  
had to be here but I couldn't see you! You were spying on me!"  
  
"Yes, I was," he admitted with a grin. "I heard you coming and  
shinned up this tree – I didn't know who it was. I couldn't believe  
it when you walked in here with your eyes shut. Did you walk all the  
way like that, William?" His dark eyes were intense and questioning.  
  
"Yes. It was easier to follow the trail this way," I told him,  
nodding. He was the only person I felt safe confiding my abilities to  
– I knew better than to let my parents know just how different I was.   
  
"Have you ever done that before?" He asked and I shook my head.  
  
"No. This was new – I didn't know I could do it." I grinned at him  
excitedly.   
  
"You're a special boy, William," he told me softly. "I suspect there  
are lots of other things you can do that you don't know about yet as  
well."  
  
I nodded, because I was sure he was right, and then I glanced around  
his makeshift home.  
  
"There's no shelter except for that," I complained, pointing at his  
tarp. "You can't live out here, Uncle Walter."  
  
"I've lived worse places," he told me.  
  
"Where?" I demanded, plonking myself down on his sleeping bag. He  
sat down beside me and gazed at me solemnly.  
  
"A place called Vietnam," he told me, and there was a sound in his  
voice that I hadn't heard before.   
  
"Why was that worse? What happened there?" I asked, almost  
breathless. His dark eyes were like whirlpools, sucking me in, lost  
in a distant, savage memory.  
  
"There was a war. I was a marine – a soldier," was all he said.  
Simple enough, but the expression in his eyes told a much darker  
story. I grabbed his hand to offer comfort and a dozen images flashed  
through my mind. I was running through a forest – a very different  
one to this, with different trees and plants and different smells and  
sounds. I was with friends – people I had come to view almost as  
family, other young men like myself. And then the sky turned black,  
and the sound of gunfire rent the air, and soon my friends were  
screaming, their blood rising up like a red tide to obscure my view,  
and then I was falling, my flesh ripped apart, and all around me was  
pain.  
  
"I'm sorry, Uncle Walter," I told him, stroking his hand, my heart  
beating too fast in my chest. "I'm sorry about that place." Even  
though the memories were of a long time ago, I could still feel them  
like raw wounds in Walter's psyche.  
  
"I've a feeling that there's a worse war yet to be fought," Walter  
told me.   
  
"Those men, your friends, did they die? How come you didn't die?" I  
asked him and he went very still.  
  
"What did you see, William?" He asked me softly and it was only then  
I realised he hadn't told me anything about the men, or what had  
happened to him in Vietnam. I bit on my lip.  
  
"I'm sorry," I whispered. "I just…when I touched your hand…I saw you  
in a forest with your friends, and then there was shooting…and you  
were hurt…" I gazed up at him, a little fearfully, wondering if he  
would be angry that I had somehow had access to one of his most  
personal memories.  
"Have you ever done that before?" He asked me.  
  
"A little," I admitted. "Not often – but sometimes I just can't help  
it. When it's a strong memory, when I'm touching the person…it all  
comes flooding out. I don't know a way to stop it."  
  
"That's okay. You haven't done anything wrong," he said. "Just…we  
might need to find a way for you to control it, or it'll upset you.  
Okay?"  
  
"Okay," I agreed, resting my head against his shoulder. I wondered  
whether I should tell him about the flies I had seen on my mother,  
but decided against it – it wasn't the same thing. It wasn't a memory  
of what had happened. What I didn't realise back then, as a child,  
was that it's possible to have a memory of something that hasn't yet  
happened. I sometimes wonder whether my life would have been  
different if I'd told Walter of my premonition – but I suspect,  
somehow, that the end result would have been the same. I believe that  
there are some things that have to happen, some things about which we  
have absolutely no choice – Walter and his Vietnam was one of those  
things, and me and my parents were another.   
  
I visited him whenever I could – not every day but whenever  
possible. I don't know how he lived, but he looked more and more  
gaunt as the days passed, so I started sneaking food out of the house  
for him. It was mostly whatever I could salvage from the kitchen, and  
my idea of what constituted a good meal rather than his, but he  
always seemed pretty grateful for the presents of squashed peanut  
butter sandwiches and the ceaseless supplies of chocolate chip  
cookies that I pressed into his hands, and ate them with gusto. As  
that last, long, hazy summer of my childhood came to a close, I crept  
out of bed one night, wandered through the woods, and found him lying  
drowsily in his little camp, looking at the stars. He berated me for  
a while for coming to see him at night, when it was dangerous, and I  
replied, solemnly, that the danger wasn't here yet, and although his  
eyes widened, he seemed to accept that.  
  
"Tell me a story about Agent Mulder and Agent Scully," I requested,  
slipping under the blanket beside him.   
  
"Not another one!" He groaned, but it was a token protest and we  
both knew it. An idea seemed to occur to him and he looked at me  
thoughtfully and then began to speak. "Once upon a time, Agent Scully  
grew lonely."  
  
"Why?" I asked, wide eyed. "She had Agent Mulder to be friends with!"  
  
"That's true – she also had other friends." Uncle Walter paused,  
looking a little sad. I nudged him to continue. "But, people can get  
lonely all the same. Agent Scully had grown up with two brothers and  
a sister and she wanted a family of her own. She wanted a baby."  
  
"Were she and Agent Mulder married?" I asked naively, wondering how  
Agent Scully could have a baby if she wasn't married.   
  
"No, no they weren't." Uncle Walter's eyes crinkled at the sides as  
he smiled.   
  
"Oookay." I shrugged, wondering where the monsters were in this  
story.   
  
"But Agent Scully had a baby anyway," Uncle Walter told me. "She had  
a beautiful baby boy, and she loved him very much."  
  
"Was this after Agent Mulder got taken away by the spaceship?" I  
interrupted, wanting to know where this particular tale came in the  
storyline. Uncle Walter's stories always had a context. I'd often ask  
if this was before the yellow eyed man, or after Agent Mulder's  
office burned down and sometimes Uncle Walter would have to pause and  
give it some thought and when I nudged him he'd tell me to be patient  
because he wasn't as young as he used to be and he couldn't remember  
all the details. I was struck by his use of the word 'remember' but I  
think even from the beginning I knew that he wasn't making these  
stories up as he went along.   
  
"This was after Agent Mulder got returned to us," Uncle Walter said.  
He often spoke like that, as if he was actually there in the story,  
although he had never mentioned what he did or what he was to Agent  
Mulder and Agent Scully if he was there.  
  
"How soon after?" I pressed.   
  
"I don't remember. It all happened around the same time," Uncle  
Walter protested. "Now, do you want to hear this story or not?"  
  
"Are there any monsters in it?"   
  
He laughed out loud. "Only one – and he's more of a munchkin than a  
monster," he told me, looking straight at me.   
  
"Okay then," I sighed, not really understanding a word he was saying  
but wanting to listen anyway, even if there were no monsters in the  
story, because the sound of Uncle Walter's voice was so deep and  
soothing.   
  
"So, Agent Scully had a baby, but very soon after that, Agent Mulder  
had to go away, and Agent Scully was left on her own to look after  
the baby."  
  
"What was he called?" I asked. "The baby? What was his name?" Uncle  
Walter took a deep breath.   
  
"Oh, I think he was called William, don't you?" He told me, and I  
accepted that happily enough.   
  
"But William was in great danger, and Agent Scully knew that if she  
kept him with her then her enemies would find him and hurt him."  
Walter paused, and wrapped his arm even more tightly around me. I  
looked up, anxiously.  
  
"William wasn't hurt was he?"   
  
"No – but only because Agent Scully decided to send him away to a  
safe place. A place so safe that Agent Scully didn't even know where  
he'd gone, because if she knew the bad people might have been able to  
find out where her baby was and hurt him."  
  
I gazed up at Uncle Walter, with a frown.   
  
"But wasn't Agent Scully unhappy without her baby?" I protested.  
"And with Agent Mulder gone away!"  
  
"She was." Uncle Walter nodded. "She was desperately sad but she  
tried to be brave because she knew she'd done the best thing for her  
baby and that he was safe."  
  
"And was he?" I pressed, concerned about the fate of my namesake.   
  
"For awhile, yes," Walter said with a nod. "But meanwhile Agent  
Mulder got into some more trouble," he sighed, and I laughed because  
Agent Mulder was always getting into trouble in Uncle Walter's  
stories, and I was just a kid so that appealed to me. "And Agent  
Scully was forced to run away with him so that they would both be  
safe." He paused for a long time, until I had to nudge him in the  
ribs with my elbow to continue. He jolted, as if startled out of a  
dream – a sad one judging by the look in his eyes. "While she was on  
the run, Agent Scully found out something about her baby that scared  
her and made her worry about his safety. She loved her child very  
much, even though she couldn't be with him, so she tried to find him  
in order to protect him from the danger. She tried very hard to get  
to him, but she had too many enemies and she…" Uncle Walter paused,  
and, looking up, I was surprised to tears glistening in his eyes.  
"She lost her battle against them," Uncle Walter said, his voice  
choked. I put my hand over his to try and comfort him and had a vivid  
mental image of a lady with red hair and wise blue eyes before the  
memory was swallowed up by waves of grief and it was only then that I  
realised the truth.   
  
"Agent Scully died?" I asked him, horrified and not a little angry  
that he'd ruined our storytelling ritual with this shock happening.   
  
"Yes, I'm afraid so," he whispered.   
  
"NO!" I said angrily. "I don't want her to die. Make her undead." He  
gazed sightlessly into space for a long time and then looked back at  
me.   
  
"I can't, William," he said in a choked whisper. "She died."   
  
"What did Agent Mulder do?" I asked in a small voice, scared by the  
expression in his eyes and still reeling from the unexpected turn the  
stories had taken. Agent Scully had faced down monsters and ghosts –  
she couldn't just die. It didn't seem right.   
  
"Agent Mulder was very sad - and very angry," Uncle Walter informed  
me in a dull, distant tone. "He was so angry that he wanted to go and  
find the people who had done this to Agent Scully – but first…first  
he had to make sure her baby was protected. So, he went back to the  
FBI building where he used to work and spoke to an old friend and  
that friend agreed to go and find William, and protect him."   
  
"Hmmm." I considered this for a moment. Up until now, Uncle Walter  
hadn't mentioned this "old friend" at the FBI and I wasn't sure I  
wanted to be introduced to a new character, especially not now my  
beloved Agent Scully had disappeared out of the stories. "Okay," I  
said finally, reluctantly. "What was the name of the old friend?"  
  
Uncle Walter looked down on me with a tight, faded little smile.  
"His name was Assistant Director Walter Skinner," he said softly.   
  
We stared at each other for a long time, and then, finally, I put my  
head against his shoulder and closed my eyes.   
  
"I don't like this story so much," I murmured to him. "I don't want  
Agent Scully to be dead - and where's Agent Mulder gone?"  
  
"Nobody knows," Uncle Walter told me, and there was a slight catch  
in his voice as he spoke. "Nobody knows. But there's one thing we do  
know."  
  
"What's that?" I glanced up at him to find him looking down at me.  
  
"That William is safe with Walter Skinner and that Walter Skinner  
would give his life to protect William," Uncle Walter said softly. I  
smiled and he dropped a kiss on my head and soon after that I fell  
asleep.  
That long hot summer seemed to last forever. In reality, I think  
only about three months passed between Walter leaving the ranch, and  
the event that would rip my young life apart.   
  
It was early September, and the leaves on the trees were just  
starting to turn. It remained unseasonably hot though – the air  
seemed to hang around us, sticky, sultry and stultifying, oppressing  
us with its stifling heat. I felt increasingly as if I was living in  
a fog, and sometimes I even found it hard to see. I didn't tell my  
mother, but there were days when I only managed to navigate my way  
around the house by my senses of smell and touch and my memory for  
where everything was. It was a peculiar kind of blindness – not  
rooted in any physical cause but in the heavy weight of the very air  
itself, obscuring my usually crystal clear sight and sinking me into  
a minor depression. I would spend every night curled up in my  
mother's lap as she rocked in the chair, her arms around me,  
protecting me from god knew what, and, during that last week, I  
lacked even the energy to visit Uncle Walter. I knew he waited for me  
as close to the ranch as he dared – he didn't like the idea of me  
walking through the woods to see him and when I would not stop  
visiting so late at night, he took to waiting down the lane at the  
end of the ranch instead. This was risky for him as if my parents had  
seen him I'm sure my father would have gotten his shotgun, but Walter  
worried about me. I didn't really understand why – I knew both my  
parents slept like logs and I was always very careful to be quiet  
when I slipped out of the house. I had a sense that went way beyond  
my years and I knew it was vitally important that my folks didn't  
know I'd been leaving the house to meet Walter. As it turned out, if  
Walter hadn't been waiting for me so close by, then it's very likely  
that I would never have lived to see my seventh birthday.  
  
It happened on a Friday. The day had been as sticky and oppressive  
as ever. My mother tried to put me to bed but I clung to her,  
tangling my hands in her hair. She didn't understand what was wrong  
and neither did my father, who hovered anxiously by the door.  
  
"Is the boy sick?" he asked, frowning.  
  
"No…I don't know…" She whispered, an unspoken fear in her eyes. She  
had picked up on the atmosphere much more than he had I think.  
  
"He's just going through a phase," my father said, shaking his head.  
"He'll sleep if you just leave him be."  
  
My mother's eyes showed that she wasn't so sure, but she kissed me,  
stroked my hair, and left the room. I stared after her as if to drink  
in the sight of her, with her long dark hair, un-braided, lying loose  
over her shoulder. I longed to get up and run after her but I was  
struck with what felt almost like paralysis. I knew then, that  
whatever was building up around us would have its release soon and I  
trembled in my little bed.   
  
I lay there, utterly helpless, gazing at the shadows on the wall.  
After what seemed like an eternity, they started to move. I stared,  
transfixed, as they took on a sinister, almost demonic aspect – like  
every child's worst nightmare. The shadows made a faint, rustling,  
hissing sound as they crept towards me, and then they materialised in  
front of me and I found myself looking, not at a monster, but at a  
man. He was big, with broad shoulders, a grim, ruthless expression in  
his eyes and a knife in his hand. It took all my strength to be able  
to break through the oppressive atmosphere surrounding me, to pierce  
the paralysis that had engulfed me, and to shriek, at the top of my  
voice.   
  
I wish I could be spared the memory of what happened next, but the  
crystal clarity of my senses didn't let me down on this occasion and  
I can still recall each sound, each smell, each vivid, bloody detail  
of it. One minute I was screaming, and the next my father had  
appeared at my bedroom door holding his shotgun. I saw his look of  
utter, incredulous horror as he saw the man looming over me, and the  
knife in his hand.   
  
"Get away from him!" He yelled, but the intruder didn't even react –  
it was as if he hadn't heard. Instead, he lunged forward, his knife  
plunging towards my heart. I heard the sound of the shotgun like a  
booming, thunderous roar, accompanied by a bright, flashing arc of  
lightening, and the next moment I was spattered with a rain of red  
blood. I gasped, feeling it soak me through to the skin, but it  
barely stopped the intruder. He staggered, fell to his knees, rested  
there for a split second, and then got up again as if nothing had  
happened. In disbelief, my father fired again – and again, over and  
over again until the man's shirt was ripped to bloody shreds and  
finally, as one lashes out at an annoying mosquito, the stranger  
turned towards my father, took two strides to reach him, and, with  
the merest flick of his wrist, slit my father's throat. The stench of  
hot, sweet blood filled the room and I gazed in horror as my father  
fell to the floor, dead before he hit the ground. The stranger  
straightened up, turned, and began to walk back towards me, but  
before he was halfway to the bed, my mother appeared out of nowhere,  
and leapt on his back. I had always known my mother to be an anxious,  
timid type of woman, but now it was as if she was a lioness,  
protecting her cub. She yelled out loud, told me to run, and I  
scrambled out of the bed – but I couldn't get past them as they were  
blocking the doorway, and there was no way to escape. So I huddled in  
the corner of the room and watched as the intruder shook my mother  
from his back, turned on her, and then, almost casually, plunged his  
knife into her body. I heard the sound of a scream rending the air  
but it didn't emanate from her – it came from me. I screamed so  
loudly that I deafened myself but even as the sound pierced my  
consciousness I knew that I wasn't screaming out loud – my cry for  
help was non-verbal, entirely instinctual, and so powerful that it  
almost blinded me. I felt as if someone had hit me over the head with  
a heavy object – there was a ringing sound in my ears and my head  
hurt so much that I lay there, stunned, unable to move as the  
stranger turned back towards me once more.   
  
I felt sure I was already dead. I was just waiting to feel the tip  
of that sharp, cold knife that glistened with my parent's blood. The  
man's face was cruel, cold, and intent and as I huddled there, in my  
corner, I knew, without any shadow of a doubt, that he wasn't human.  
He didn't resonate to the same tune as everything else on this world  
– and I knew that because I had been listening to that tune, studying  
it, revelling in it and enjoying it, from the day that I was born.  
No, this creature standing in front of me with his bloody knife most  
definitely was not human – but he had been once. He was an  
abomination of a human being, ravaged by some kind of disease that  
turned his flesh into metal and his body into a ruthless automaton.  
He was out of sync with all the other living beings on this planet –  
whatever virus it was that had affected him had changed him into  
something completely other, something alien, something that didn't  
belong.   
  
I gazed at him transfixed, and I think, maybe, that the fascination  
was mutual. Maybe he saw into my mind as I saw into his because he  
paused, and glared at me for a moment, as if he didn't understand  
what I could be. A split second later, something big and furious  
burst into the room, swung the alien being around, and sank his fist  
into the creature's jaw. The intruder swayed for a moment, slightly  
stunned, and then recovered, as he had from the gunshots.   
  
"No, no, Uncle Walter, he'll kill you…" I sobbed, fearing I would  
lose the last person in the world left who I loved and who loved me,  
but Walter took no notice of me. Instead he swung again, and this  
time the alien blocked his punch and moved forward with his knife.  
Uncle Walter saw the knife glistening as it arced through the air and  
he grabbed the creature's arm, deflecting the blow. The alien  
grunted, and twisted Uncle Walter's arm where it was fastened on his  
wrist. Walter gave a growl of pure, savage outrage, his protective  
instincts every bit as finely honed as those of my parents but Walter  
was a warrior where they had just been simple farmers, and he got  
himself free, managing to wrest the knife from the alien in the  
process. He sank it into the creature's body where it did as much  
damage as my father's bullets had done. Realisation dawned in  
Walter's eyes and he fumbled for something in his pocket – too late!  
The creature fell on him, and they both went crashing to the ground.  
I heard the grunts of two big men landing hard, powerful punches on  
each other, and then I saw Walter finally reach whatever it was in  
his pocket. He took out what looked to me like a piece of rock, and,  
without warning, pressed it into the creature's eyes. The alien let  
out a roar, as if he had been blinded, this simple lump of rock  
hurting him far more than the bullets and knife had. He scratched at  
his eyes as if they burned him, and then fell, writhing, to the  
floor. He continued writhing, his skin going a strange shade of ashen  
grey.   
  
Uncle Walter got up, breathing heavily. His jaw was bruised and his  
knuckles bleeding. He had a cut above one eye, and blood was dripping  
down his face. He gazed at me, and I gazed back, terrified.   
  
"William. It's okay. It's me," he whispered, holding out a hand to  
me as if I were a stray cat. "It's okay," he said again, although it  
patently wasn't. "William, we have to leave. We have to go," he told  
me urgently, glancing at the still writhing form of the alien on the  
floor. I shook my head, and huddled into the corner even more, gazing  
over his shoulder into my mother's staring eyes. Already flies were  
alighting on her, feasting off her blood in the sticky, sultry, late  
summer heat. Uncle Walter looked back over his own shoulder to see  
what I was looking at and his jaw did that sideways clench. He turned  
back to me.  
  
"William, she's dead," he said in a hoarse tone, full of raw  
sympathy. "I'm sorry, but they're both dead and you can't stay here  
any longer. You can't even stay here for another minute. We have to  
leave."  
  
I shook my head again.   
  
"William, I don't have enough magnetite to kill him – he'll recover  
eventually and even if he doesn't, you must understand that he was  
just the first," Walter hissed. "There will be others."  
  
I stared at him in dumb horror. "I'm sorry, William, but we have to  
go," he said, coming towards me. I couldn't walk – all I could do was  
hold out my arms and he picked me up as if I weighed nothing, and  
then ran out of the room with me. My last sight of my bedroom was of  
a scene of utter devastation; the dead, bloodied bodies of my parents  
lying on the floor, and the alien, still writhing and scratching his  
face, his body looking even less human now, his movements strange,  
jerky and utterly unlike anything a human body was capable of. Walter  
didn't stop to gather any belongings – he just ran out of the house,  
and then tried to dump me on the ground outside.   
  
"William, I need to set fire to the place – that'll slow him down  
while he's recovering from the magnetite," Walter told me urgently  
but I refused to be separated from him, so he worked with me stuck to  
his hip like a limpet.   
  
He grabbed a can of gasoline from my father's stores, and threw it  
liberally over the house, concentrating on my bedroom, although I  
kept my eyes tightly closed as he poured the gas onto my dead  
parents' bodies. Then he lit a match and threw it onto the gas. The  
whole place exploded in flames, but he didn't stop to watch. He just  
hoisted me higher and closer, and began to run into the woods.  
  
We ran for what seemed like miles. I have no idea how he managed to  
do it and to this day he tells me that he has no idea either – it was  
as if he found a superhuman strength from somewhere, just when he  
needed it.   
  
"Where are we going?" I whimpered, clinging on to him for dear life.  
  
"My car is just through here. I've always kept it nearby, ready…in  
case…in case something like this happened," Uncle Walter said grimly,  
his chest heaving from exertion.  
  
He ran through the woods and out into the lane on the other side.  
There he stopped by a big, silver car, opened it, and got in, me  
still attached to him. He managed to disengage me enough to get me  
seated but I was still practically stuck to his flesh. I gazed at him  
as we drove away from the town, full of surprise. Uncle Walter was my  
father's hired hand, a man who worked for his food and lodging – he  
didn't fight like a professional boxer, or have mysterious lumps of  
lethal rock in his pocket - and he didn't own a big, shining silver  
car like this one we were driving in.   
  
Uncle Walter glanced down at me, his face grim.   
  
"William, are you okay?" He asked. "Did that man hurt you?"  
  
"He wasn't a man," I replied, and Walter's eyes met mine and held my  
gaze for a long, assessing second.   
  
"No," he replied after a pause. "No, he wasn't a man."   
  
"How did you know he was there? How did you know to come?" I asked,  
knowing that I had not screamed out loud and even if I had, there was  
no way he would have been able to hear me from the lane. He shook his  
head.   
  
"I thought you would be able to tell me that," he said grimly. "I  
suddenly got this blinding headache and I swear I could hear you  
screaming although…" He paused and his jaw clenched again. "Although  
only in my head," he finished.   
  
"Yes, I screamed inside my head. I didn't know you could hear me," I  
murmured. Nobody had ever heard me inside their heads before;  
although I could often see into their minds, they seemed unable to  
see back into mine.   
  
"You must have been frantic with terror," Walter said, and that was  
when I lost it. I had been in a daze since Walter had killed the  
alien, but now I fell apart. I started to tremble and the tears  
tumbled down my face. Walter pulled the car over, and then pulled me  
over so that I was sitting in his lap and he held me and rocked me as  
I sobbed piteously against his shirt for what felt like hours.  
Finally, I cried myself out – for now at least although there would  
be plenty more sobbing sessions in the coming weeks. He stroked my  
hair, kissed my forehead and held me and I clung onto him, knowing  
that he was the only person left in the world who loved me. Little  
did I know then, that there were many other people who loved me –  
people I had met when I was much younger and had all but forgotten -  
people who had risked their lives for me already.   
  
"I'm sorry," he whispered. "I didn't know this would happen. I'm so  
sorry. I thought maybe Scully was wrong. Please understand, William –  
I didn't have the power or authority to take you away from your  
parents and I didn't want to either – you were so happy there. I  
thought you might be safe – that ranch was in the middle of nowhere.  
I thought they might not find you, and that if they did there would  
still be time to get you out. I had no idea…we had no idea when we  
decided…Mulder didn't think anything would happen, not yet, not until  
you were older…we thought we had time…I was just supposed to be a  
precaution…those poor people. Your poor parents…oh god, I'm so  
sorry."   
  
I didn't bear him any malice – only gratitude for saving me from  
that cold, strange, alien creature who had tried to kill me. However  
I did get an inkling of Walter's propensity to take everything on  
himself, and to shoulder more than his fair share of the blame. He  
couldn't have known what would happen – who could? I blamed nobody  
but the stranger who had taken my parents' lives and now he was dead  
so there was nobody left to blame – instead I had to find a way of  
living with my grief. Walter took out a huge handkerchief and wiped  
my face clear of my father's blood and my own tears, and then reached  
into his pack on the back seat and found one of his own enormous  
sweaters to wrap me in so that at least the blood on my pyjamas was  
covered up.   
  
"Where are we going?" I whispered as Uncle Walter then wrapped me in  
a blanket he found in the back of the car, and belted me into my seat  
again.   
  
"We're going to stay with some friends," he told me, with a little  
smile. "I'll take care of you, William, you know that, don't you?  
I'll always take care of you, while there's breath left in my body."  
  
I stared at him – he seemed so strange and serious as he made that  
vow, and it reverberated around the car, clanging in my consciousness  
in recognition that it was something utterly important. I can see him  
so clearly – dried blood on his face, and a dark cut on his brow, his  
face covered in sweat and grime, those brown eyes of his totally  
solemn.   
  
"Yes, Uncle Walter," I whispered back. "I know." I may have doubted  
many things in my life, but I never once doubted that. Little did I  
know it back then, but the third phase of my childhood had begun.   
  
Walter tidied his own appearance up as much as he could, wiping the  
blood off his hands and face and pulling another sweater over his  
blood stained shirt, and then he glanced over at me.  
  
"William, we have a long drive ahead of us. I'm taking us to see  
some friends – people who will look after us."  
  
"What about my parents?" I whimpered, tears flooding my eyes, as I  
remembered their dead bodies. Maybe some primal instinct within  
wanted the closure of knowing their bodies had been taken care of  
because I did know, rationally, that they were dead, but the child in  
me also hoped that somehow I'd wake up back in my bed tomorrow and  
none of this would have happened.  
  
"They're dead, William. I'm sorry," Walter said, repeating what he'd  
already told me once. "We have to go – we can't stay in case that man  
comes after us. We're lucky that the ranch was so remote, and your  
folks didn't go into town much. That'll buy us some time before  
people find out what's happened up there and start looking for you.  
We have a long way to go and I'd like to get there before the police  
get involved. Try and get some sleep, okay?"  
  
I nodded, uncertainly, sure that I wouldn't be able to sleep, but  
the smooth, gentle motion of Uncle Walter's expensive car soon lulled  
me to sleep. It was an uneasy sleep, and I woke frequently, with a  
start, only to remember what had happened and to long for the  
oblivion of sleep again. I was dimly aware of Uncle Walter making a  
couple of calls on his cell phone and I wondered how he could afford  
the phone and the car and all these worldly goods that had been  
beyond my parents' reach, dirt poor as they had been. I'm not sure  
how long we journeyed, but I remember vividly that he was anxious the  
entire time, looking in the mirror frequently, and not just to check  
on the other traffic. When day came, he hid the car and we slept, and  
then once night fell he began driving again, stopping only for long  
enough to refill with gas, and for us both to use the bathroom, and  
to grab some food en route. Just before dawn on the second night, I  
was roused by the sound of the car slowing down.  
  
"Are we hiding again?" I asked.  
  
He looked at me regretfully. "To be honest, William, I think we'll  
be spending the next few years hiding," he told me. "But for now, we  
can at least stop driving. We're here."  
  
I had no idea where 'here' might be but on looking around I saw we  
were in the suburbs of a big city and I stared out of the window in  
amazement – I had never been in a city before, and everything looked  
strange and alien. There was a scent to it that I had never smelled  
before – full of so many overpowering odours that I almost fainted.   
  
Walter drove the car onto a driveway, and a second later a man  
appeared at the front door. He silently opened the garage and Walter  
drove, just as silently, into it. The man outside then closed the  
door softly behind us. It must have been about 4am – and our arrival  
was so quick and quiet that nobody in the street was aware of it save  
ourselves, and the people who lived in this house. Walter wrapped me  
tightly in my blanket, and hauled me out of the car. I clung to him  
again, scared of this strange new place. At that moment, a door at  
the back of the garage leading into the house opened, and a woman  
appeared, haloed in the bright white light of the hallway behind her.  
I took one look at her and fell in love with the next mother figure  
my short life had thus far given me. She had thick, wavy dark hair  
and clever dark eyes – but most of all, I knew that she and I shared  
a genuine empathy. There was a warmth to her that I felt immediately  
comfortable with, and, as with Uncle Walter, I knew that I could tell  
her everything about myself and she would believe it all – even those  
parts that confused me and had upset my parents.   
  
"Hello, William," she said, in a voice that exuded comfort, love and  
sympathy. "My name is Monica."  
  
"Hello, Monica," I whispered in reply. "You have really pretty  
hair."   
  
She gave a little laugh of surprise, and then came towards me and  
kissed my cheek by way of welcome. I reached out a finger to touch  
her dark, wavy hair and she smiled down at me – and it was then that  
I saw the terrible knowledge in her eyes. She knew what had happened  
to my parents and she, like Uncle Walter, would do everything in her  
power to protect me from any more pain. I had no idea why this woman,  
who I didn't know, would love me enough to protect me – I just knew  
that she did.  
  
"God, sir, you look terrible," she murmured, transferring her look  
of concern from me to Uncle Walter. I looked up, and couldn't help  
but agree with her. Walter's skin was grey and bruised, and there  
were dark shadows under his eyes. "Here – I'll take William," she  
said, reaching out for me. I gave a hoarse, inarticulate cry and  
grabbed Walter's neck even more firmly. Even though I knew  
instinctively that Monica was a friend, Walter was my security  
blanket and I wasn't about to give him up just yet. In fact,  
sometimes I wonder whether I've ever given up this particular  
security blanket.  
  
"It's okay. I'll take him," Walter murmured, heaving me up a bit  
more in his arms and then walking, a little unsteadily, towards the  
open garage door. "And Monica – call me Walter. It's been a long time  
since anyone called me 'sir' and the truth is that I like it better  
that way."   
  
"Yes, Walter, "I could hear the smile in her voice but I was  
distracted a second later as we stepped into the brightly lit hallway  
and someone else loomed into view. I buried my face in Walter's neck.  
  
"It's okay, William – that's John Doggett," Walter told me softly.  
"He's a friend. A good friend." I nodded, but still didn't remove my  
face from Uncle Walter's neck. He took me into a living room and sat  
down heavily on a couch, with me still wrapped up around him. John  
Doggett said something and I sneaked a peek at him, interested by his  
voice. He had an accent I had never heard before and I loved the way  
he spoke – it fascinated me. He had such a husky, low voice, deep in  
a different way to Uncle Walter's rich baritone. I liked the raw,  
almost whispery quality of his voice and allowed it to wash over me.  
This man was a good person. I knew that immediately – just as I had  
known that Monica was a good person and Uncle Walter was a good  
person. I peeped out more openly from under my dark bangs, trying to  
get a better look at John Doggett. He was a thin man, with a firm jaw  
and almost opaque blue eyes. He was standing behind Monica, one arm  
wrapped around her body, their hands entwined. I was struck  
immediately by their quiet, but almost tangible love for each other.  
She was so different to him - a creature of instinct, kind hearted,  
warm, open and almost serene. He was blunter, raw edged, honest,  
bluff and lacking the imagination that she had in abundance. He hid  
his own kind heart much deeper than she, but it was still there,  
under the surface. That was their attraction – to the inherent good  
they saw in each other. Their more superficial differences just  
added more spice to the mix but fundamentally they were a perfect  
match for each other. My parents were the only other couple I'd  
really known properly, and they had been well suited too. I  
recognised that same affection and underlying sense of love and  
attraction in John and Monica.  
  
"What's the news?" Walter was asking urgently, as I gazed at my two  
new friends.  
  
John and Monica exchanged a grim glance.  
  
"Tell me," Walter urged.  
  
"They found the bodies," John said, in a low, flat tone. "A few  
hours ago so you got a good head start."  
  
"How many bodies?" Walter asked, his fingers going absently to  
stroke my hair.  
  
"Just two," John replied. "They put an APB out on the boy. So far,  
they haven't mentioned you."  
  
Walter's jaw did a sideways clench.   
  
"After I left the ranch I went to the local feed and seed and made a  
big deal about having lost my job and getting out of town. I made  
sure everyone saw me, and then I hid out in the woods," he said. "I  
wanted Nathaniel to think I'd gone and I guess it worked."  
  
"For now at least," John said, and there was something about his  
tone that suggested he thought it wouldn't be long before they tried  
to tie Walter to the murder of my parents.   
  
"What did you eat when you were hiding in the woods?" Monica asked,  
in a fascinated tone.  
  
"What I could find," Walter replied. "It was summer – there were  
plenty of berries and I haven't forgotten how to use a trap…and  
William was kind enough to often bring me food at night."  
  
I glanced up at him, surprised; he had never told me he was hungry –  
my bringing him food had been instinctual, and now I was glad that I  
had. I was just starting to understand the depth of feeling these  
people all had for me – Uncle Walter had been sitting starving in a  
forest rather than leave my side.  
  
"Well, that reminds me – you both must be hungry," Monica said.  
"I'll get you some food." She disappeared for a few minutes and I  
closed my eyes and listened to John and Walter's deep voices as they  
talked. I dozed off for a bit, and woke to hear them talking in  
whispers, clearly thinking I was asleep.  
  
"I'm surprised," John said. "I didn't think he'd look like this  
somehow."  
  
"I know what you mean," Walter replied in an undertone, stroking my  
hair. "I don't know what I was expecting but I kept looking for  
something of Scully in him…or even…" he hesitated, and then continued  
as if he hadn't started that train of thought. "…but I never saw it.  
It took me awhile to stop looking for other people in him and start  
seeing him as he is and not the sum of who made him. John…" Walter's  
voice went suddenly croaky. "John, this kid is something special – I  
mean really special. There are things he can do…"  
  
"Well, I guess we knew that," Monica's voice chimed in softly as she  
returned to the room. "I mean, I saw him when he was just a few  
months old, doing stuff that completely freaked Dana out."  
  
"I remember hearing about him making his mobile go haywire," John  
commented. "Is that the kind of stuff you're talkin' about, Walter?"  
  
"No – I never saw him do anything like that, although I don't doubt  
he's capable of it," Walter murmured. "He just sees things in a  
completely unique way. It's as if his senses are more finely tuned  
than ours – everything you can see, he can see with a hundred times  
more depth and clarity, and it's the same with his hearing, his sense  
of touch, smell – all of it. He has a very good memory too – he  
remembers things in a way we don't – I can't describe it, but when  
he's remembering it's close to reliving the event."  
  
"Poor child," Monica whispered in a horrified tone.   
"I know." Walter rocked me back and forth on his knee, in a  
comforting motion. "We have to make sure that there are other things  
he can remember – good things – so he doesn't live Friday night over  
and over again. "   
  
"You're sure about all this, Walter?" John asked, in an uncertain  
tone, and I sensed his underlying unease with this kind of subject  
matter.   
  
"Yes, I'm sure," Walter said firmly.   
  
"Sounds a little freaky, huh?" I could hear Monica touching John's  
shoulder and there was a slightly teasing note in her voice.   
  
"Just…well, if all that's true then he's a pretty frightening kid,"  
John replied.   
  
"No – that's just it," Walter said. "I guess you have to get to know  
him, but I've never known a child that exuded this kind of…I'm not  
even sure what the word for it is – maybe innocence? He's got this  
incredible charm – it's hard to believe anyone could want to hurt  
him. It's sin enough to harm any child, but this one has something  
about him that makes it unthinkable. He's just…special. It's as if he  
isn't even here some of the time – he's seeing things we don't. He  
has this unworldly air…" Walter stopped short and I sensed the sudden  
rise of tension in the room.   
  
"Well, there's a lot we don't know about him," Monica said. "It's  
possible…"  
  
"No. He's Scully's kid," John said firmly, as if he refused to  
entertain any other notion. "Scully and Mulder. He's their son."   
  
I felt a thrill run through my body. Scully and Mulder – I had  
idolised them from afar because of Uncle Walter's stories and now  
they were saying that the two agents were my parents? A couple of  
nights ago I had lost the only parents I had known, but now I had  
gained some new ones and that made me feel strangely comforted. I  
stirred, and Walter looked down on me with a smile.  
  
"Hey, William. Monica made us some sandwiches. Want to eat?" I  
nodded, slowly, suddenly feeling very hungry. Walter and I made short  
work of the sandwiches and then Monica suggested that we both needed  
a bath. I clung to Walter as he got up, and walked slowly, wearily,  
up the stairs with me. I had never thought about how old Walter was –  
he was just an adult, like all other adults, but now I saw the fine  
lines around his eyes, and realised that he was older than my  
parents, older than Monica and John, and however strong he was, the  
events of the past few days had completely exhausted him –  
emotionally as well as physically. Monica ran a bath, while Uncle  
Walter sat on the closed toilet seat and began slowly undressing me.  
He looked fit to drop but I wouldn't let anyone but him touch me, and  
I cowered against Walter's legs when John offered to help.   
  
"It's okay. He just needs some time," Walter said, but I saw the  
momentary flash of hurt in John's eyes and wondered what that was  
about. Unbidden, a picture of another little boy, a few years older  
than me came into my mind but I pushed it away, too tired to think  
about it.   
  
Monica and Walter bathed me, and then wrapped me in a big warm towel  
to dry. Monica gently tousled my hair and smiled down at me.   
  
"Hey, so this is what you look like underneath all that dirt," she  
said with a wink, and I gazed at myself solemnly in the mirror. I was  
very pale, and my eyes seemed to shine in my head, like huge,  
luminous, dark orbs. My eyes had always been a strange colour – they  
seemed to change with my emotions, going from brown to green to blue,  
but right now they were as black as the night. Apart from my eyes, I  
was a very ordinary looking child - I wondered if that was what John  
had meant when he'd said earlier that I wasn't what he'd expected. "I  
bought these yesterday – I hope they're your size," Monica said,  
holding up a pair of pyjamas. They were a little too big but it felt  
good to get into something clean, and then Uncle Walter picked me up  
again and took me to a room with a little camp bed in one corner and  
a double bed in the other. He put me in the little bed, and I  
stiffened and clung to him, unwilling to let him go.  
  
"It's okay. You're safe here," Walter told me, gently but firmly  
disengaging himself. I moaned and shook my head – I had thought that  
I was safe back in my bedroom on the ranch but I hadn't been. "I'll  
stay right here until you fall asleep, then Monica will watch you  
while I take a bath myself, and I'll come back and sleep in that bed  
over there. You won't ever be alone," Walter told me.  
  
"Does Monica have any of that magnet rock?" I asked Walter in a  
quavering voice. He glanced up at Monica and she nodded.  
  
"Sure I do," she said, coming over and drawing a small pebble out of  
her pocket. "We all carry some, William. Here, why don't you have my  
piece so you can feel safe?" She put out her hand and placed the  
piece of rock in mine, and I yelled and it dropped to the floor.   
  
"That hurts," I said, and she exchanged a worried glance with  
Walter. Transfixed, I reached down and picked up the rock again. It  
did hurt – not in the same way as it had clearly hurt the alien who  
had attacked me, but it tingled in the palm of my hand, and gave a  
burning sensation. When I let the rock fall onto the pillow and  
examined my hand, it was a little red where the rock had touched me.  
  
"I'll sleep with it under my pillow," I told her. "It'll be safe  
there."  
  
She and Walter glanced at each other again, worried frowns creasing  
their foreheads, but they nodded, and I pushed the little lump of  
rock under my pillow and then laid my head down. Uncle Walter pushed  
my hair out of my face, and sat there with me until I closed my eyes  
and fell fast asleep.  
  
  
  
It was the middle of the afternoon when I woke the next day. John  
Doggett was sitting on the bed in the other corner of the room,  
reading a newspaper. He looked up, sensing my eyes upon him, and  
smiled. I liked the way the sunlight caught those pale blue eyes of  
his and I smiled back – and then my smile faded as the memories  
crowded back in, and I felt tears spring into my eyes.  
  
"I thought maybe it was a dream," I whispered, and he shook his head.  
  
"I'm sorry, William," he replied, getting up and coming to crouch  
beside me. I turned my face away from him.   
  
"Want Uncle Walter," I sobbed.   
  
"Walter's having somethin' to eat," John told me in a firm tone.  
"The poor guy's completely beat – so why don't you and I see if we  
can't get you into some clothes and downstairs for breakfast, huh?"  
  
I felt John's hand on my shoulder and shook him away, my sobbing  
rising a decibel. The hand came back, more firmly this time.  
  
"Hey, buddy – Walter isn't your only friend," he told me. "Monica  
and me – we're your friends too." I saw that boy again – he had spiky  
hair, like John's, and a wickedly mischievous smile. I liked him. I  
saw him gazing up at John, laughing as they played some prank on the  
boy's mother. If this boy with the wicked smile had loved John so  
much, then I thought that maybe he might be worth loving. I turned,  
and stared at John thoughtfully.  
  
"Luke was 9 when he went away, wasn't he?" I asked. John took a  
sharp intake of breath. "He had cool hair just like yours but his  
eyes were brown like Barbara's." Unsettled by the freaked out look on  
his face I added, in a bright tone: "I think you should help me get  
into some clothes and take me downstairs for breakfast now." I was  
parroting back his earlier words in what I hoped was a reassuring  
tone. He gazed at me for a moment, and then nodded, still looking  
slightly stunned. I got out of bed, and he pointed to a red sweater,  
pair of jeans and underwear that someone – Monica? – had laid out on  
the dresser.   
  
"Luke had a bike," I told him as he helped me out of my pyjamas and  
held up my sweater for me to dive my head into. "Will you teach me  
how to ride a bike without training wheels, John?" I asked him as my  
head emerged the other side.   
  
"Sure, buddy." He gave a little smile, but I saw that I had  
inadvertently touched something deep inside him, something he would  
never speak about. I hoped he didn't mind me talking about Luke.   
  
Walter was sitting downstairs sipping some coffee when I walked into  
the room holding John's hand. He looked a lot better than he had – he  
was clean, shaven, and was wearing a pair of clean jeans and a plain  
dark shirt. His skin had lost its greyish tone but the eye under his  
cut forehead was turning a nasty multi-hued colour, his jaw looked  
red and sore, and his fists were swollen and cut. I threw my arms  
around him and kissed him, then sat next to him to eat, guzzling a  
huge bowlful of Cap'n Crunch as I listened to the adults talk.  
  
"Walter, we've been making some arrangements over the past six  
months in case something like this happened," Monica said, tousling  
my hair as she passed and winking at me as she poured me some orange  
juice. "You clearly can't stay here, so we've found a cabin up in the  
Blue Ridge. It's very remote – and very small. We bought it in an  
assumed name so nobody can trace it to us."  
  
"Sounds good. When do we leave?" Walter asked.  
  
"Tonight," Monica nodded at John. "I'll be coming with you," she  
added quietly. "I'm handing in my resignation at the Bureau."  
  
"What?" Walter looked up sharply, his dark eyes concerned.  
  
"Walter, it's okay – the Bureau isn't important. We have other work  
to do now. Vital   
  
work." She glanced over Walter's shoulder at where I was sitting,  
busily stuffing my face and humming to myself at the same time. "John  
will stay here – and at the Bureau. We need someone on the inside to  
find out what's going on – someone who we can trust," Monica finished.  
  
"And there ain't a lot of people we can trust left in the Bureau,"  
John added with a sigh. "I'm sorry to tell you this, Walter, but  
after you went…well the place gets stranger by the day. I'm not  
saying I understand this, but the people just feel – different.  
People I used to work with just blank me as if I didn't exist –  
almost as if they've forgotten we were ever friends."  
  
"It creeps me out just going into work these days," Monica said.  
"John can handle the weirdness better than I can. Sometimes I'm  
talking to people and I get a chill that just crawls up my spine.  
I'll be glad to leave. I don't belong there any more."  
  
Walter was listening to all this with a grim, dour look on his face  
and I knew it hurt him in some way I didn't understand.  
  
"You guys will need to lie low," John said. "Walter – I don't want  
you or William leaving the cabin if you can avoid it for the next few  
weeks. Things are pretty sensitive out there and the police are  
looking for William. Monica can get the groceries or I'll bring them  
over but you can't rely on my visits – if they start watching me then  
there's no way I'm going to lead them straight to you."  
  
"We'll need to set up code words, and devise a means of reaching  
each other – we can't assume that if John calls on his cell phone  
that it's really…" Monica paused, "…really John," she finished. "He  
has to give us the right password or we get out and start moving on."  
  
"I agree." Walter nodded. "I think we have to assume that they still  
want William, for whatever reason – and our job is to protect him."  
Monica looked at Walter and then at me, with a startled expression.  
"It's okay – I won't lie to William or hide the truth from him,"  
Walter told her firmly, putting his big arm around my small, skinny  
shoulder. "William, I told you once that you didn't have as much time  
as I'd like in which to grow up and that's still true. After Friday,  
you understand as much as any of us what kind of danger lurks out  
there for you. I don't want you to go around being scared but I do  
need you to be careful. Just know that we - Monica, John and I –  
we'll give our lives to protect you."  
  
"But I don't want anyone else to die," I whispered, thinking how my  
mother and father had both sacrificed their lives to protect me.  
  
"Then we'll do our best to stay alive," Monica told me, with a wide  
smile. Uncle Walter was right – I did have to be aware of the  
dangers, and it was reassuring to know that there were people who  
would protect me, but even so, I was just a little boy, and I found  
it hard to comprehend what was happening in my young life.  
  
"What about…?" Walter glanced at Monica and his jaw did that  
familiar sideways clench. "Have you heard from him?" He asked and I  
saw a light of such hope in his eyes that it almost hurt to see it  
extinguished a split second later by the regretful shake of her head.  
  
"I'm sorry, Walter, but no," she sighed. I didn't know who they were  
talking about but I did know that he was someone that Walter wanted  
to hear from very much, judging by the dejected slump of his  
shoulders and the aura of disappointment that emanated from him so  
vividly as to be almost tangible. I also realised, without surprise,  
that Monica and John were more or less oblivious to it and only I  
could see it.   
  
Monica had bought both Walter and me some clothes, which were  
already packed and stowed in the car in the garage. Later that night,  
Walter laid down flat on the back seat, with me lying flat on his  
large chest, a blanket covering both of us, and Monica drove the car  
out of the garage. John took off in his own car at the same time but  
in the opposite direction, as a "decoy" he said, and I spent a long  
time muttering the word over and over in an undertone because I liked  
the sound of it – although it didn't sound as good in my tinny voice  
as it had in John's husky baritone.   
  
"Uncle Walter," I piped up, lying there on his chest as if it was  
the most normal thing in the world to be ferried about in the middle  
of the night hidden from sight under a blanket. "What does 'decoy'  
mean?"  
  
"Uh, William, it might be best if you kept real quiet right now,"  
Uncle Walter whispered back. "I promise I'll tell you when we get to  
where we're going. Okay?" I nodded happily, put my head down on his  
chest, and promptly fell fast asleep.   
  
Okay, so I'm pretty sure that Walter kept all his important promises  
to me but some of the minor ones may have slipped his mind; I ended  
up having to ask Monica the meaning of the word a day or so later.  
  
We arrived at the small cabin in the middle of nowhere some time  
after midnight. There was no hot water – just a spring fed cistern  
and an old hand pump by the sink. Nor was there any electricity but I  
didn't care much about that because there was a creek nearby which  
afforded me hours of endless fun in the coming few weeks, from the  
sheer pleasure of listening to the sound of the running water, to the  
physical joy of getting in it and feeling that water washing over me.  
I liked the place immediately – I was used to wide open spaces, and I  
was too small to care much about the privations of the place. There  
was very little furniture – Monica and John had managed to discreetly  
stock the place, but it was all pretty basic – an old, rickety table  
and chairs, sleeping bags, air mattresses, and a lurching cupboard  
was the extent of it, but it was safe, and that was all that mattered  
in the circumstances. I had the feeling we wouldn't be there for very  
long anyhow.   
  
As soon as we arrived, Monica and Walter unpacked while I sat on the  
back porch and gazed at the depth of the colours that made up the  
pitch black night sky. Monica shot me the occasional worried glance,  
but it had been awhile since I had last been able to gaze,  
unhindered, and fully connect with the world around me. Somehow I  
needed it in order to be able to re-charge my batteries and it  
soothed me after all I'd been through. Walter let me sit there while  
they sorted out the house as best they could. It was decided that  
Monica would sleep in the little back room, while Walter and I would  
sleep on air mattresses in the living room. When they had finished  
getting the car unpacked, Walter lifted me up, uncomplaining, in his  
big arms, helped me into my sleeping bag on one of the mattresses,  
and watched over me until I fell fast asleep. In fact, there were  
very few occasions over the next few years when he didn't watch over  
me until I fell asleep – maybe he knew that those moments were the  
hardest, and the time when I was most likely to think about my dead  
parents.   
  
I woke with the sun the next morning. It was a beautiful day and I  
enjoyed myself helping Monica and Walter to get the cabin into some  
degree of habitability. Monica revealed a surprising degree of  
capability for home-making. I say surprising, because she was a very  
different woman from my mother, who liked nothing more than to be  
busy around the house. Monica was a woman of other talents  
completely, but underneath her imaginative, quirky exterior was  
someone who liked things to be organised, and it was this talent that  
she put to good use in the cabin. The place wasn't filthy, but it had  
been awhile since she and John had last been out to check on it, so  
it needed some work. She smiled as we got on with it, scrubbing the  
table and floors together – with me probably more of a hindrance than  
a help now I look back on it.  
  
"I did this once before," she murmured, tousling my hair. "When your  
mother was expecting you. We had to hide in a place like this then."  
  
"Why?" I asked. "Were there always people chasing after me, even  
before I was born?"   
  
Monica considered this for a moment, and then nodded, a sad frown  
creasing her forehead. "Yes, William," she sighed. "I'm afraid there  
were. You're a very special little boy, you see."  
  
I nodded, happy enough with that answer. I had always known I was  
different so none of this surprised me, however out of the realm of  
most children's experiences it was.   
  
"Tell me about my mother," I asked, softly. Monica stopped what she  
was doing and brushed a long strand of dark hair away from her face,  
studying me uncertainly. "Please," I ventured, reaching out a hand to  
touch her arm. I immediately had a vision of a small, red haired  
woman, with fierce, intelligent blue eyes. "Agent Scully," I  
whispered, recognising her immediately. I remembered her now, from  
when I was very small. It was harder to access those memories but now  
I had seen Monica's memory of her it all came flooding back. I had  
spent so long in her arms, nuzzling against that red hair. I could  
remember the smell of it – like fresh apples.  
  
"Your mother was a brave, dedicated woman," Monica told me. "And  
most of all, she loved you very much. She loved you enough to give  
you up when you were in danger. She never rejected you, William. She  
thought she was saving you."   
  
I nodded, but I couldn't stay to help Monica any more. Instead I  
went and sat on the porch, staring into space, going through these  
new memories that had been awakened one by one, treasuring the little  
time I'd had with the woman who had been my first mother.   
  
Walter was busy collecting and chopping firewood for the little wood  
stove. They'd brought enough kerosene to keep a couple of lamps  
burning and they had a big battery lamp that lit the place well  
enough at nights, as well as several large flashlights. I still  
pestered Walter for stories about Agent Mulder and Agent Scully but  
now I had Monica to pester as well and she wasn't a bad story-teller  
either – she even knew some stories about Agent Scully that Uncle  
Walter didn't know. We spent many evenings toasting marshmallows in  
the woodstove, with those two adults telling me stories until I  
finally fell asleep.   
  
End of Book One  
  
Xanthe@xanthe.org 


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